i’ve got the headphones on and t-rex cranked. i think phil summed it up best when he and i were sitting here last night and “the slider” came on: “what a fuckin rock star” that’s about the size of it. mark bolan. pure rock. read the lyrics. they don’t mean a damned thing. and you listen to it, and it doesn’t make a difference. you still buy into it. unlike say, lenny kravitz. i’ll listen to his stuff, and most of the time i can just go with it, but sometimes he’ll sing a couplet like “we’ve got to love….and rub-a-dub”, and it’ll stop me in my tracks (somebody left a kravitz cd in the office the other day, and i popped it in my walkman). it’s like you get into a groove, yer going with the whole sexy vibe of a burning rock riff, flipping yer feather boa back over your shoulder as you adjust your top hat and bug-eyed shades, you’re almost about to climax, and then lenny sings that line. riffus interruptus. there are about 4 such lines in mama said, while i’m singling out lenny.
but not marc bolan. he sings about chicks in new york carrying frogs, and i just think….well, i don’t think. that’s the point. if you must sing really stupid lyrics, either sing them unintelligibly, or die before i get around to reading the lyric sheet. because the words of the dying are always looked on as truth. if cobain were still around, he’d probably be as damaged and lame and swollen-headed as courtney love. marc bolan would be hanging out with gary glitter in some brit prison.
ok i am officially rambling. i should be doing something other than just sweating and typing. and appreciating pure rock stars.
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